Hi there. Long time lover of silky bomber jackets here. I think the obsession goes way back to my youth when I watched the Grease films and wanted to be a Pink Lady. I don't really understand why any woman wouldn't want to be a Pink Lady. Nor any man. Err, hello?! RIZZO. But actually they were a girl gang with no weak corners, there was someone for everyone.
This newest addition to my satin bomber collection is from ZARA. (By writing it in caps they're insisting that we always shout the name of this shop, "ZAAARRAAAAA"). I actually think it's sold out because ZAAARRRAAAAA are really on it at the moment and they keep making "key pieces" or "wardrobe must-haves" but they're very "affordable" (hmm, it's relative guys) and so therefore you have to be quick and "snap them up". So I snapped and it's up.
Lastly, no I am not wearing white tights, that is just how pale my skin gets in winter.
This is a piece Noisey let me write about the nutso times of style in the early 2000s. In terms of style, 2005 was the best of times and boy, was it the worst of times. Personally, I was spending all my money on vintage—back when vintage was actually cheap. I was wearing a lot of dresses and sporting that over-straightened, asymmetric haircut (mullet) a lot of us were apparently digging a decade ago. In fact, you can see what I looked like in 2005 here. For the record, that is not my cuddly white tiger and I did not write that stuff about wanting to save or adopt them. In 2005 I was a cold-hearted, Chromeo-loving club kid. I cared not for animals, I only cared for ra-ra skirts worn with pumps and three quarter-length footless tights. But before we get into the fashion of 2005—disclaimer alert—music fans, and eventually everyone who gives a damn about their appearence, are heavily influenced by artists and celebs, but because these artists (and sometimes celebs) are always somewhat ahead of the curve, the trickle-down effect tends to take six months to a year to catch on. Sometimes it takes even longer. So don't start moaning about a shot of Karen O in the summer of 2004 because for real, you did not work up the courage to start attempting to emulate her '04 steez until '05.
Anyway, let's do this. HAIR
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Hair is and has always been a critical statement—the cherry that tops off your stance—and in 2005 gig-goers' coifs were still reeling from the affects of electroclash: It was the day-glo hangover from 2002/3 that hovered above all our crowns. Thanks to Peaches uh-huhing all over the world we were very into mullets. The key differentiation between a Simon Le Bon cut and a 2005 business-party situation being, as I mentioned before, excessive hair straightening. (Even Kings of Leon's Caleb Followill was getting in on the act.) We also spent many hours in the bathroom accidentally ruining our towels with neon shades of pink, red, and yellow as we home-dyed streaks into our strands. Note: This was pre-the hip East London, salon Bleach and the many shades of pastel-hued hair which eventually took over the world. This was pre-ombre, pre-balayage, pre-shades of pale lavender/rose/blue. The Strokes’ Julian Casablancas’s latest follicular lewk (below) can surely be attributed to a recent stumble across some old photos of Karen O and/or Peaches. Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.He’s clearly trying to bring back the I-accidentally-killed-my-hairdresser's-cat-and-now-I'm-paying-for-it look. Either that or a toxic apocalypse took place on his thatch, (which is kind of thematically in line with last year’s ambitious LPTyranny. Read all about it and him in our Noisey cover story from earlier this year ). Can't wait till 2022 when he's bleaching his hair and turning it a pale shade of pink, while posting pics on Instagram of his green juice in a mason jar. #blessed.
SKINNY JEANS Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view. Kings of Leon circa 2005 via Last.fm There's been a lot of debate in the Noisey office about skinny jeans in 2005. Were you wearing skinny jeans back then? If so, please get in touch. We will need to see photographic proof of you wearing said item while holding a newspaper from that year. You see, slim-cut denim may have entered some fashion collections like those of Stella McCartney in '04, but if you think hard about it, it wasn't till mid-way through 2005 that they began to be a wardrobe staple. I know I was wearing them with ballet shoes and weird homemade boob tubes, but then I was completely insane and definitely not stylish. Kate Moss was probably wearing them at Glastonbury with a waistcoat, #ofcourse, with a snivel-faced Pete Doherty in tow, but tapered denim were not de rigueur for the masses, even if Kings of Leon were already getting their mom to tailor infertility-inducing fits. Perhaps it's how comfortable girls felt in leggings that made the later transition to skinnnies so seamless. And speaking of leggings...
LYCRA (PREFERABLY SHINY)Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view. A woman’s best friend and worst enemy all in one fabric! Karen O was a major Lycra icon. It's elasticity allowed her to catapult herself around the stage with ease without a care for a tears. She could lunge and plunge and high kick without giving a fuck. Imagine if Lenny Kravitz took a leaf out of her book? The world would never have witnessed his, well, you know...Remember when Karen started wearing leotards and torn fishnet tights and we all lost our shit? This was DIY. All you had had to do was head to American Apparel and roll around drunk in a rose bush and you were 96 percent there. If leotards were too bold a step, leggings were still legit—preferably patterned with a zebra print or neon stripes. Alternately, if you considered yourself remotely eccentric-alt, you were probably cast in gold. I remember a lot of people being into those metallic-hued Lycra jumpsuits and wearing them with big faux fur coats, face glitter, and bright, smudgy eye make up. A lot of those people were into performance art and the Scissor Sisters. They started “collectives” and squatted in distant zip codes/post codes of major cities that had yet to “come up.” Gentrification? Pfft? Never ’eard of it! A lot of those people are now married with babies and chatter on Facebook about how much they love Zara. A lot of them are my friends. But back in '05 sheeny Lycra worn with simple white Keds knock-offs was a great way to say “I'm arty, I'm free, I'm sucking in my stomach.” BAND BOYS
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As we all know, 2005 was a great time for indie music. As we said in our #2005 week article Losing Our Edge, The Year the Mainstream Hacked Indie Rock, the world was enamored Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.with guitar music in a way that hadn’t been felt en masse since Britpop in the UK, or grunge in the US. In 2005 The Strokes were still saviors! They were white, male, straight, and well to-do while encapsulating a dishevelled downtown cool. And they wrote songs about girls. (For the record, I love them, but they hardly re-invented the frickin' wheel). Their look, which was copied in all major metropolises by many men, and some women, included long-ish hair, vintage tees, hoodies with blazers or leather jackets, and Converse. Sometimes Albert would bust out a suit (or part of one). Brandon Flowers of The Killers, who were really coming to pre-eminence in 2005, was all about that look, while Interpol's Carlos D was working, not only a flat-ironed asymmetric haircut and a suit, but also a totally superfluous gun holster. (Glad that one never caught on.) A lot of boys were also toying with the idea of wearing trench coatsImage may be NSFW. Clik here to view.. Some were way ahead of the ladies and were stuffing themselves into the aforementioned skinny jeans. This was the beginning of the era when men would say, “I actually buy women's jeans, they fit better.” The point of this look was supposed to say you didn't give a fuck, but of course you gave many, many fucks. Your hair would be artfully messed up with wax, or strategically straightened, and you'd almost certainly smoke. Press shots for bands were taken backstage with a bottle of whisky, and you could smell the whiff of potential hotel room destruction in the air. This was really 70s-inspired, rock ‘n' roll behavior's last hurrah. Bloody feminism and Spotify ruining the casual misogyny and the possibility of signing a record deal with a huge bowl of cocaine!
CLUB KIDS
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Indie clubs were massive in '05. If you were a club kid you were always out, going to the same pre-approved places over and over again, seeing the same people, and the only thing that changed was the outfits. Trash in London and Misshapes in NYC were huge. Everyone was a DJ and many people had their own nights where they'd play the same records all their friends played at their club nights. A lot of Scritti Politti and Steely Dan's “Peg” mixed in with an obscure band no one had heard of yet. Trucker caps were on the way out and black and white striped tops were in, as were glasses sans lenses, chunky belts, big, colorful plastic bead necklaces, blunt bangs, and pouts. And boy, were plenty of opportunities to exercise those pouts thanks to the influx of party photographers. The best examples are probably LA’s Mark Hunter, a.k.a. the Cobra Snake and one third of the Misshapes, Geordon Nicol who was a DJ (obviously), at the night of the same name. (We made some current day hipsters review the Misshapes photography book earlier this year and the results were very entertaining and made some of us at Noisey feel very old.) Anyone with a digital camera and a powerful flash—this was pre-decent cameras on your cell, remember—could turn up at some dark, dank club and have an impromptu photo shoot with some non-models who considered themselves at the forefront of fashion. It's like what happens to Jenny Humphrey in Gossip Girl when her nutso model friend encourages to put on a fedora, take off her top, and dance on a table so some dude can take pictures. There are two rules of party photography—as the photographer you must always use the flash. Bleaching away the majority of your subject’s facial features is totes flattering and helps alleviate sweat-face (although this is not always successful). If you are the subject: chin down, pout/grimace. A lot of Sunday mornings in 2005 were spent scrolling through the pages of party blogs trying to find a new Myspace profile picture: “This one will get me in loads of Top 8s!”Side note while we’re on the topic of Myspace. This was the era of the proto-selfie, where shooting yourself in the bathroom for that all important profile pic was a crapshoot which involved debilitating arm-strain as you angled the camera at your face from on high. Tough times. (For more Myspace nostalgia please head to A Love Letter to Myspace, the Social Network Where Music and Identity Intertwined. Yay #2005week!)
Above is a Sienna Miller fan-made video set to Jeff Buckley's "Grace." Not sure how he'd feel about this. Although there are plenty of shots here that are not from 2005, you can spot Miller's '05-boho gear faster than DiCaprio can sniff out a Victoria's Secret model at fashion week. BOHO Blame Sienna Miller. Blame Nicole Richie and Rachel Zoe. Blame any skinny blonde chick who wrapped some gold elastic around her head in 2005 and called it “Grecian.” Those floaty skirts worn with a vast leather belt perched jauntily around a lady’s widest part (hips). Slouchy pirate boots. Rouched peasant blouses. Upper arm bracelets that either continuously slipped down to your wrists, or strangled the circulation of your upper under arm flab. (BTW, the term for this in the UK is “bingo wings.” Why is there no US-slang equivalent?) Those waistcoats. Pause please. Seriously what is the point of a waistcoat? It's not a jacket, it's not a dress, it's a completely useless tunic often of tasseled suede or studded leather. More like WASTEcoat, amirite? Looking back I actually think the Boho vibe was one of the less offensive styles to smack us between the eyes in 2005, but that might be because right now everyone seems to want to dress like Penny Lane in Almost Famous, including me. I remember thinking at the time, “Everything about this vibe is so flammable, your BO clings to Lurex like an aggressive koala and every item is cast in various shades of burnt sienna/mustard. Why are people into this gross 70s stuff?” But I probably thought that because it's really hard to do Boho when you have an overstraightened mullet. Sob. PROTO-NORMCORE A.K.A. JENNIFER ANISTON In 2005 Ms. Aniston had just been crowned the media's Heartbreak Queen thanks to her split from Brad Pitt—swiped, if you believe the tabloids, by the plump-lipped, vial-of-blood wearing vixen Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view. and future earth mother/philanthropist Ms. Jolie. In September of that year Aniston allowed an interview with Vanity Fair entitled 'The Unsinkable Jennifer Aniston' in which she talked and cried about her divorce. The then 36-year-old did so, according to the journalist, while wearing “a white tank top and white drawstring linen pants, with a vivid lavender cashmere cardiwrap around her to ward off the unseasonable chill.” Yep, sounds about right. She was and still is, a walking Calvin Klein campaign who appeared on the red carpet in an endless rotation of very plain black dresses, letting her tan and hair do the talking. (Please note, she is CK post-the edgy Kate Moss years.) Aniston was always in pumps—again very boring ones, black or nude—and around town, her off-duty look was cargo pants with t-shirts or sleeveless roll necks. A choice look for scooping the center from her bagel and filling it with ultra low fat tofu cream cheese while she wondered when she'd finally be able to have a baby. Or whatever crap the tabloids said she was doing. Not everyone could do basic as beautifully as her, so a lot of us resorted to the safer world of Proto Normcore Plus—a look that Marissa Cooper made famous/notorious. To put together this look at home you will need:
Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view. The O.C. press shot via Warner Brothers 1. Open-toed kitten heels/flip flops or pointy pumps. 2. Boot cut jeans—MUST BE LOW RISE—or capri pants. 3. A silky, wafty short sleeved top. 4. A croissant shaped bag. One with a really short strap so it's just sitting in your armpit all day long getting stinky. Also the bag itself should be the perfect size to store your ballet flats, but not big enough to actually be useful. 5. Big sunglasses that cover most of your cheeks. 6. A long necklace. The key word here is statement. Hey, why not throw on two? 7. A tendency to say, “Let's get cocktails!” and then order something really sugary and stand at the bar holding it nervously. (Listen, the effects of SATC were still rippling, OK?) 8. A deep, deep love of The O.C. soundtrack and an even deeper love for Adam Brody. 9. To be overflowing with middle-class whiny problems. JUICY COUTUREImage may be NSFW. Clik here to view.Amy Poehler's chest clad in JC in Mean Girls You know who loved Juicy Couture tracksuits in 2005? Victoria Beckham. She was so into that velvet feel, she liked wearing nothing but a bra underneath the hoodie, getting a fit that was really, really tight. Paris Hilton was at the top of her fame-game then too, and in May 2005, when her waxwork at Madame Tussauds was unveiled, she was wearing, you guessed it—a pale blue Juicy number. When Britney Spears married Kevin Federline (in Vegas in the fall of '04) her bridesmaids wore matching pink tracksuits while the men wore white ones with the word Pimps emblazoned on the back. Even the not yet properly famous Kimmy K was wearing a grey one back then. Now the brand is re-focusing and the days when celebs and Desperate Housewives wore clingy velour appear to be long gone. A fashion tragedy, that will be mourned by everyone from J Lo to Lilo—in much the same way we mourned the death of style when we first clapped eyes on them trotting around LA parking lots accessorized with a giant frappuccino that was roughly the same size as the accompanying small dog in a designer handbag. THE PUSSYCAT DOLLSImage may be NSFW. Clik here to view. Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.PCD in the "Don't Cha" video I probably should have said this at the beginning, but if you want to see what happens when a year of fashion explodes onto six women, just take a look at Nicole Scherzinger and, err, the other ones. It's like their stylist sent them the most popular looks of the season so they could pick their favorite, but instead they just went, “NAH, WE'LL TAKE THEM ALL IN ONE GO, PLEASE.” Little Mean Girls-esque kilts worn with trucker caps and boho waistcoats. A brightly colored, asymmetric hairdo with low-rise, boot cut jeans, pumps and a studded basque. Boho waves with a Lycra leotard and cargo pants. Stripes! It's like one of those kids games where you can match or mix up people's heads with different illustrations for their top, middle, and bottom. For example, sticking a crown on a farmer in cowboy boots. Or most of Britney Spears outfits. Basically, you're entering a world of pain.
DOUBLE POP COLLARImage may be NSFW. Clik here to view. Some dudes on TumblrOK, So I'm British and live in London and my shit hot editor suggested this as a look from 2005 which I should talk about. But the thing is, I've never seen this before—other than in the Wet Hot American Summer prequel, when it was a nod to the 80s. What is this? I'm staring at pages and pages of Google images of men wearing two (or more) different colored Ralph Lauren shirts with collars popped. Why are they doing this? Do they all have some sort of illness or chill that only affects their neck and chest? Do they want to look like they're really built in the peck area? Is it so they can swap them round when the one closest to their skin gets sweaty? They must be wearing two so they can give one to a friend! Or, so they can save space when packing for a trip. Right? The popping of the collar I don't mind too much, it's super preppy, although I feel like if I met a guy styling it with crisp khakis and loafers I'd probably be really judgmental and assume he's very rich, possibly creepy, and frat-y, and not completely averse to Donald Trump. But also that's a look that translates to the UK–Prince Harry is always poppin. Is this a delayed response to Usher’s 2001 hit “Pop Ya Collar”? Did all the Ivy Leaguers decide they liked Three 6 Mafia’s “Poppin’ My Collar,” but want to put their own Hamptons spin on it? (If you want to know more about this then please refer to another #2005week gem: Let's All Take a Moment to Remember How Three 6 Mafia Saved Us In the Popped Collar Wars of 2005.) The odd thing is that it seems to have been pretty acceptable to do the double collar pop in 2005. I just found a screengrab of John Mayer sporting this look on a forum for Les Paul guitars, and someone replied, “I'm so glad he only did this a couple of times.” BUT WHY DID HE DO IT AT ALL? I don't understand. I don't think I want to.
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JM on a Les Paul guitars forum
2005 was a time when we thought it was a good idea to wear flip-flops with jeans, when owning several long beaded necklaces was imperative, belts were worn over smelly vintage dresses, and insta-creased satin and overly-glimmered fabrics were all over the red carpets. And yet simultaneously, this was the year that LCD Soundsystem dropped their eponymous debut and Nothing. Was. The. Same. I can't believe it was a decade ago. I can't believe I still have some of these relics in my wardrobe and—gasp!—still wear them. I can't believe how religiously I wore ballet flats. I don't think I'll ever forget the feeling of a sodden sole of a pale pink ballet shoe as I walked home in the rain. I'm so glad I threw my hair straighteners away, but I'm sort of sad Myspace is gone, as are club photos where, when you look at them again all these years later, we actually looked sweaty, try-hard, and gross. When I write another piece like this in 2025, what will we cringe about? Probably nothing! We all look fantastic now, right?
In my house, the first rule of Christmas is that you do not talk about Christmas. No, wait, sorry. The first rule is that you make sure all the foods you love are somewhere around the house, the second rule is that you dress up. When I saw the dresses Dahlia made for this season I know they'd be perfect for the two Sankey Christmas rules - they're a bit special, and have a loose waist. I can work with that. In fact I loved these velvet dresses so much I got two. This one is even called Lizzie, talk about meant to be! Unfortunately it sold out pretty quickly, but this one is a very similar cut. The two sisters behind Dahlia have been consistently producing extremely excellent looks in 2015, and I can't ruddy wait to see what they do in 2016. But for now, onward to the turkey.
I'm reposting my mince pie recipe because apparently these are an annual thing?!
My grandma used to make perfect mince pies. Elegant, with a uniform shape. Fluffy, light pastry, and filling that oozed out gently when you took a bite. Nowadays I'm the one in our family who makes the mince pies, but I don't have her recipe or nimble fingers so I just bumble about on my own. The result is deep buttery pies. And they really are pies. Lack of resources means I use a muffin tray, so my festive treats are beefy. They splat and crumble, they shoulder their way into the party instead of lightly skipping, the stars atop them a bizarre accoutrement, like a sumo wrestler wearing a tiny silver top hat.
However, they do the job, and while making them this year I took some photos. So if you lean more towards big fat mince pies, you can follow my recipe below.
INGREDIENTS 225g Unsalted butter 350g Plain Flour 100g Caster Sugar 500g Mincemeat (about one and a half standard jars) A small cup of milk 2 tsps Cinammon Juice of one orange
I used my Mason Cash ginormous mixing bowl as I was doing a double batch this year. I love this bowl but since my kitchen is smaller than a milk carton I don't get to use it as much as I would like.
Heat the oven to about 180C, then...
First off I make the pastry. Now my method for making pastry is highly unorthodox (read: lazy). I melt the butter. I know, this is a terrible thing in the world of baking, but I can't stand getting butter and flour stuck under my fingernails, and besides, it works.
While that's melting I mix together the flour, sugar, cinnamon, and the orange juice. Orange juice makes the pastry taste slightly more Christmassy (not a word) and also gets it lovely and moist.
I grease the muffin tray and then take small balls of the cooled pastry it and push them into the holes in the tray. I cut off any excess at the top with a knife, trying to keep it as neat as possible. Then I spoon a round teaspoon full of mincemeat into the pies.
To make the stars for the top I just flatten some pastry with my hand and then use a star-shaped cutter. I also used hearts this year because that's pretty sweet. Finally I brush some milk on to the tops of the mince pies so they brown in the oven.
Put them in the oven for 20-30 minutes until they're golden. Leave them to cool in their trays for 10 minutes, then turn them out onto a cooling rack. The pastry will harden more as they cool. Eat them with lashings of brandy butter.
This post is a love letter to my friend Laetitia of Mademoiselle Robot who took these photos of me (The jacket, skirt, top and boots are all from ASOS) at the end of last year. Laetitia and I have known of each other for a while, but I feel like 2015 was the year when our friendship really stepped into technicolor.
In my early 20s I thought I had all the friends I needed - I didn't have loads - but since I was now an adult and had quite a few people I could talk to about important things and spend time with happily, I probably didn't need to make any more. That was dumb. Early 20s me was a dumbo. Now I know that one of the best things about getting older is how you can make more friends at different points in your life. I cherish the close knit group who have known me since my teens, they are my family. But now I understand how great it is to find people with whom you can share different aspects of your life. Laetitia is one of the funniest, kindest, and most interesting people I know. She's immensely supportive but also likes sending me weird Larry David cartoons on WhatsApp. We share a strong interest in the lives of certain Australian Instagram health beauties, and she always has the best advice when it comes to tricky sartorial decisions. She's a writer, photographer, stylist and the mother of a little person who is now one of my favourite pals. So I guess what I'm saying is don't ever think you have enough friends. You definitely don't.
The first season of Fargo was brilliant, the second one has surpassed it. (Although I haven't finished watching yet, so maybe they completely mess up the last few episodes. Somehow I doubt that). All the characters are well written, and there are no sloppy performances, but I will always have a particular soft spot for Dunst. As the beautician with dreams Peggy Blomquist, she manages to be both appealing and completely infuriating - I have been shouting at the TV a lot. I also like her trying-to-be-a-fashionista-in-a-small-town style, and her hoarding of magazines is something I can definitely relate to.
When it comes to work, I'm not good at details. When we're writing songs there's a point where I hand it over to Jeremy and leave the room. The real nuts and bolts, the nitty gritty part of production - do we need to track that guitar again? Is the snare too compressed? Which mic to use to record that? Yeah, I'm not bothered. This can work well, it means I can get some distance from our songs that Jeremy can't, so when I come back to them I do so with fresh ears, and it's easier for me to say, "Err what the hell is that synth doing?!" when it isn't working. (Pity poor Jeremy who has just spent days writing and recording a part, only to have me rub it out in seconds). When you're working with someone else and they're good at details, this can be ideal. But when you're on your own it causes problems. I am fine doing broad big ideas, but less into going over and over something to make it better. I don't think I could ever learn to play a musical instrument because it requires practising. For aaaaaages. But acting I'm into because you can feel your way, and you come to it already an expert at, like, speaking and walking around and shit.
However, when it comes to clothes I'm obsessed with the details. From the technical side - the length of a pair of jeans, or a skirt, where it sits on my waist - to the aesthetical. And it has little to do with what's in fashion at the time, or whether it's the right colours for me (remember those "find your colour" seminars women, and probably also men, used to go to? Where they'd have a flip book of fabrics in different hues that they'd hold next to your cheek. Then they'd announce, "She's a winter" and everyone would applaud. *wistful face*). It has way more to do with how it makes me feel, or what/who, it reminds me of. This dress has great details, and it reminds me of Fairuza Balk as Sapphire in Almost Famous. It's a keeper.
My excellent friend Laura Darrall has started a campaign to get people talking about mental health. The idea is very simple, you write #itaffectsme on a post-it (other brands of gluey paper are available), stick it on your forehead, take a selfie and share. If you want to donate to Mind too then I'm sure that would be very welcome. The aim is to get more people talking about mental health, you can read about the plan on Laura's website here, or in this Cosmopolitan piece here. When Laura isn't campaigning she can be found making extremely rude jokes but there's no link to that, sadly.
If you live in London, you should eat at VICO. I'm writing that with a sulk on my face because I don't really want you to go to VICO, because if you don't go to VICO then that means when I go to VICO it will be like my own private VICO and I'll never have to book. I've written the word VICO a lot for someone who doesn't want to talk about VICO. Look, it's a really good new italian restaurant from the same chef who runs Bocca Di Lupo and Gelupo, the best Italian and gelato places in London respectively. VICO is a bit more casual than Bocca and they do Gelupo so it's basically the best of both worlds and blah blah blah, it's absolutely amazing, try the deep fried lasagne balls blah blah blah.
You know what I can talk about very happily? This Native Rose jacket I got in the sale. It's really really soft.
Pretty much any time you see an illustration in some way affiliated to us, it will be the work of Julia Scheele. She's done T-shirts, posters and the cover of our fanzine. You know in 'Friends' when Monica gets two jobs making food for funerals and she says, "It's like I am the official caterer for that accident!"? Well, Julia is the official illustrator for all our accidents. She's currently doing a project where she does illustrations to go with her favourite songs of 2015, and we were chuffed to have 'Angela' on that list. Hence the above. Julia told me she based these prom outfits on what Rose McGowan wore in 'Jawbreaker' (such an underrated movie) and what Larisa Oleynik wore in '10 Things I Hate About You' (such an understandably respected movie). Check out Julia's Tumblr for the other songs and their illustrations.
WWCHD stands for What Would Cher Horowitz Do? Although in this case I think it should be WWTLCOCHATFD? (What Would The Love Child Of Cher Horowitz And Tai Fraiser Do?) Because this outfit feels like a mix of them both. Cher is the co-ord skirt and blazer, obviously, Tai is the creepers. I always wanted to be Cher, to have that soft blonde hair she flicks to the side without thinking, to be able to get tanned instead of just going a flaky pink, to have owned that much tartan. But I never got to go to an American high school in the '90s, and also, Cher isn't a real person. Duh. More and more I think film and TV characters are just aspects of people anyway. You can't just be Lorelai Gilmore because then you'd be a cartoon character, so instead you're probably a mix of her, Emily and Rory. At least that's what I'm telling myself. But still the aspects of Cher I admire - her directness, her strength, the fact she doesn't care what people think - can be mixed in with my Tai insecurities. I should probably have a bit of Dionne in there too. Even if Stacey Dash is a bonkers republican these days.
I wrote about The Craft (again), this time for Noisey.
Teenagers, and in particular teenage girls, have always been connected to magic and witchcraft. In Massachusetts in the 1690s it wasn't middle-aged men who had their urine baked into a witch cake by the town and fed to a dog in order to see if they were Satan's slaves. (Yes this actually happened). The power of a young woman who is discovering herself and her strengths, has always been considered a threat: To other women, to men dismayed by their feelings towards those women, and to society at large. Basically, the world can't handle our periods or our boobs, so they call us witches. Ironically instead of this making teenagers shy away from all things coven-based, they're often drawn to it—“We are the weirdos, Mister,” snarls Nancy to a mystified bus driver.
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Sometimes this devotion to spells finds itself in a glittery-sweet pop culture setting—Sabrina The Teenage Witch, Teen Witch and Bewitched. Sometimes it comes in a darker, more dangerous form: Carrie and, of course, The Craft.
As a girl I made my own magic books and filled them with made-up spells, which is both weird and lame, but when I look back at them now I see they were a lot about lacking confidence. I had one that was a mantra I'd repeat before bed that I decided would make me more likeable to the other girls at my school. I knew it didn't work, but then also it kind of did because as I got older I gained that self-assurance I so lacked. I started to believe in my own particular form of magic.
Witches are an easy mantle for the rebellious woman to adopt. When we don't take shit from anyone, when we have a gang of friends we fall deeply in love with, when we wear whatever we want and decide our body is our property and no one else's, we're following in the footsteps of the strong, rebel females who've come before us. Whether that's Alse Young of Windsor Connecticut, who was hanged in 1647 for witchcraft, or Kathleen Hanna of Portland Oregon who, thank Manon, is still alive and kicking, it's our heritage. I love Halloween because fall is fit (that's British for really attractive), and also because there's that crisp, smoky snap in the air. Might just be bonfires, might be some Salem witches being badass in the woods.
With that in mind and is traditional for The Score, I wanted to look at the music (which as you'll see is pretty much all covers) and the style in the movie that depicts the best coven in cinema—wave hello to Nancy, Sarah, Bonnie, and Rochelle.
NANCY
Nancy. Is. Everything. She's a ball of anger, a big rageful knot squeezed in a small body. Played by Fairuza Balk she harbors a deep hatred for anyone who's ever crossed her, including her stepfather, at times her mother, but most of all for her trailer park existence. She's an outsider who has been chewed up and spat out by the crappy boys at her school because she dared to wear a PVC trench, paint her nails black, and have strong opinions. But she’s just not gonna take it any more. When we're introduced to her we're not sure whose side she's on, especially when she's hostile to newcomer Sarah.
Nancy is nearly always in black. At the beginning of the film she slicks her hair back, always wears dark lipstick and even darker lip liner. She likes leather and mesh and I feel like she'd shudder at the idea of being seen in florals. In fact she'd probably make a face like this:
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Please note the nose ring, the thin 90s brows, and the studded choker.
It's fitting that the soundtrack for The Craft is crammed with female artists, as this is very much a female narrative. I'm pleased Elastica's “Spastica” made it on there as Justine Frischmann reminds me a lot of Nancy. The same cropped hair, the same ugh, whatever attitude, and the same sick taste in leather jackets. In case you don't know—shame on you—Elastica are a British post punk/new wave/Britpop band from the 90s who wrote one unassailably awesome album. Sample the lyrics to “Spastica” include the line, “Monsters of the present are the monsters of the past / Took a look in your lyric book, your head's right up your arse.” I know for certain that Nancy would approve.
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In time Nancy invites Sarah into the group and the four become powerful thanks to Sarah's willingness to share her natural abilities. A lot of the rituals portrayed in the film are based on real Wiccan rites—they had a Dianic Elder Priestess to advise on set. And after filming Fairuza bought the Wiccan shop she often visited to research the character of Nancy. She doesn’t own it any more but it still exists.
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While this union between the four women means her three best friends finally get what they want, Nancy is left in the same sad life she hates. Look at her, sat in her rad kimono at her shrine in her sad pre-magic bedroom, praying desperately for something better to come along.
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But then, thanks to a freak incident and, you know, magic, she and her mom come into some serious cash. Now look at her in her new post-magic bedroom! Look at that view! Look at this amazing co-ord she's wearing, look at how fucking great her life is now!
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But it just isn't enough. Candles and a sweet apartment view do not a happy person make. She wants more, she needs more, so she goes after the big guns.
I feel like this is a good time to talk about Tripping Daisy, the neo-psychedelic pop band (their words, not mine) whose cover of Harry Nilsson's “Jump Into The Fire” was used on the soundtrack for the film. After the death of their guitarist Wes Beggren from a drug overdose in 1999, members of Tripping Daisy went on to start The Polyphonic Spree, pretty much as a reaction to their friend's death. A choral catharsis of sorts. Tripping Daisy were known for their lightshows where they used oil and water for swirly dreamy 90s-via-the 60s effects. I wish people still did shit like that.
Nancy realizes the only way to get properly infused with magical ability is to commune with Manon, the almighty power these girls worship, on a windswept beach at midnight (where else?). Manon hears her heartfelt call to the heavens, and responds by bestowing upon her some pretty damn terrifying powers and also loads of whales, sharks, and dolphins (thoughtful).
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After that Nancy's skills becomes formidable, and she starts to use it in ways that scare Sarah, the only natural witch of the group. Nancy often has good intentions but she's still intimidating. Her style also changes to reflect her inner evolution, her hair is wilder and more loose, she wears dresses with bell sleeves, and she is never seen without her hobnail boots. The vibe is very evil Stevie Nicks.
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Then shit gets really, really dark. Nancy starts doing a lot of calm talking but with an evil head tilt, like this:
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Check out her rosary beads and cross earrings. This is a Catholic school, but I don't think she's Catholic, in fact I know she's Manonic, so I guess this is subversive? You know what? She's starting to freak me out, I think it might be time to move on to someone else.
SARAH
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Oh Sarah. She moves to the area from another part of the state, and I think her mom has just died, or died at some point in the recent past. Anyway, girl has some baggage, and I'm not just talking about her Jansport rucksack. Her first day at school she hasn't got her school uniform so she's wearing her normcore muted beige/brown hoodie and polo shirt, and clutching her books very close to her chest like a life preserver.
FILM FACT: Robin Tunney, who plays Sarah, was wearing a wig for this film because her hair was still growing back after she shaved it for Empire Records. Also, like her character in that film, Sarah has tried to slit her wrists, which is actually part of what bonds her to Nancy, Rochelle, and Bonnie.
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As you can see, Sarah does some freaky witch shizz with that pencil in class, which is a bit reckless tbh, but Bonnie spots it and realizes they've finally found “their fourth.” Sarah is dubious about these social pariahs, and instead tries to fit in with the rest of the class.
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I like how she wears her kilt and blazer with ankle socks and Converse.
Sarah's song on the soundtrack would probably be the Jewel track, “Under The Water.” Sarah is a sensitive soul who has been through a lot. I can imagine her in her bedroom, staring of that photo of her mom in the wide-brimmed summer hat, playing Pieces Of You over and over again. Do you remember that album? Do you remember how huge it was? Do you remember all the other vanilla-and-quasi-Christian-rock-acoustic-guitar-songbirds who emerged in its wake? Who Will Save Your Soul, the first single released from Jewel's debut was everywhere, the black and white video filmed in a public bathroom must have been played on Pop Up Video a million times in 1996. Not that Sarah is the kind of girl who'd watch VH1. She's so above television. You know what she's not above though? Chris Hooker played by Skeet Ulrich.
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She falls for his charms and agrees to go on a double date with him, and the school blonde bombshell/racist and her beau. He tells Sarah she has a nice-shaped head and she's wearing black knee high socks—what can possibly go wrong? I'LL TELL YOU WHAT! He spreads a nasty rumor that she put out. And she did not put out. This lie pushes her into the understanding arms of Nancy who has also been mistreated by the school bull-shitter. Pretty soon the coven we will come to know and love are walking through the cafeteria like this.
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I love that they're doing that thing that friends often do, where you start dressing like each other. I have done that and it's a bond that lasts forever. Even now I have friends who I won't see for ages and then we'll meet up and be in head-to-toe matching outfits. Our style tastes grew up together. And for these guys that means white tops, nipple friendly bras, vests, and suspenders.
The perfect song for our memory of their friend-love is Juliana Hatfield's cover of “Witches' Song,” which was originally sung by Marianne Faithfull. The lyrics are all about meeting on hilltops and invoking spirits with your sisters—ideal coven playlist material. Faithfull's original is much more relaxed than Hatfield's energetic re-imagining, with a spooky synth effect that sounds like howling wind under Faithfull's croaky vocal. It's way better.
Sarah revels in her Wicca-inspired style transformation. She borrows some black eye shadow and dabbles in lacy tops, while her hair increases in volume. It's a good look for her. (I like Nancy's little bob and hair slides).
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Unlike Nancy, Sarah is more open to florals and looking pretty. She does a lot of that long sleeved t-shirts under dresses look which was pretty dope in the 90s. Especially when your best friend is holding a knife to your throat.
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Sarah also has this amazing ability to change her physical appearance by, like, running her hands over her face and body. It's called a glamor. DUH. I would kill to have the skills for this spell, it would make getting ready so much easier, and you could change your hair on a whim. Or you could make yourself look like Donald Trump and say you think gay marriage and immigration is awesome.
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After Nancy's big Manon love-in and her subsequent violent and, let's face it, illegal behavior, Sarah starts trying to distance herself from her frenemy. She also starts dressing in her regulation school uniform again, leaving the vests in her wardrobe. Yeah, like that will save you, honey. It's not until the end of the film that Sarah really finds her look. She's seemingly inspired by Lirio, the older witch the girls encounter at the magic shop they frequent.
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The last time we see Sarah she's done the ultimate anti-Nancy move and embraced pastels and satin. Nancy is gonna be SO MAD!
BONNIE AND ROCHELLE
I'm gonna cover these two together because they're inseparable, which actually extends to real life—Rachel True and Neve Campbell became BFFs on set and apparently still are to this day. So it feels cruel to split them up.
Bonnie is really shy, and, thanks to some awful scars she is always covered up.
Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view. Jesus, it looks so freaking hot in that Californian sun, and Bonnie is wearing wool tights, the longest anorak I've ever seen and a roll neck under her school shirt. And then there’s Rochelle. I think Rochelle has the best style out of all four women. Her suede Mary Janes, her cropped v-neck cardigan, the sleeves rolled up on her shirt, and that kilt which somehow makes her look preppy and super cool at the same time. Also I'm really into her hair.
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And look how cute she is here with her denim overalls as her friends use their powers to make her float in the air above the floor.
Now you might also notice that in this screengrab Bonnie isn't quite as covered up any more. Yeah see, something happens to her. I don't want to spoil it but basically there's one morning when she walks into class looking like this.
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She's suddenly the sassiest broad you'd ever love to meet. I like her French braid and the way she drags her coat along the floor behind her. Then she stretches out in the sun like a cat and you know that Bonnie has arrived.
Heather Nova's cover of the Peter Gabriel classic “I Have The Touch” is the ultimate theme song for transformed Bonnie, because suddenly she's there. In the world, looking out for a connection, hoping to make a few sparks. She leads the way in front of her friends, walking through town and catcalling cute guys—this girl needs contact.
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I think she must have lent Rochelle her old anorak, switching it out for a leather jacket and some excellent necklaces. Also holla to Sarah in her beret and black roll neck like a Wiccan existentialist.
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These girls like their barrettes.
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Rochelle's style hits a middle ground between her friends. Like Sarah she wears floral dresses over long sleeved tops, but her dresses are ankle length, and she looks a bit more badass. Over the course of the story she adopts more and more black, to represent her dark actions and cruel treatment of a certain blonde lady in particular.
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I love what she's wearing here to the beachy invocation of Manon. I remember how great it was to have tops that knotted at the front, and I like that this cardigan matches the color of her dress, it's all about the co-ordination of your jersey dress and your knitwear, guys.
Now. I don't know if you know this, but the Letters To Cleo cover of The Cars'“Dangerous Type” is on the OST for The Craft. And I don't want to get all Ben Wyatt on you, but how frickin' rad are LTC? They're a band the best fictional characters love—Ben obvs, but also Kat Stratford freaking out over them in Club Skunk in a scene from 10 Things I Hate About You anyone? They sung at her prom! And on the roof of that ridiculous high school! Lead singer Kay Hanley had the coolest late 90s hair, whether it was cropped short and dyed two tone red and blonde, or styled into little spiky ponytails on either side of her head. And when she sang the National Anthem for the New England Patriots they had a winning streak of 8-0! She was also the singing voice for Josie in Josie And The Pussycats! Deep down, if life hadn't thrown them some curve balls, I think Bonnie and Rochelle would just be into going to LTC concerts and listening to Save Ferris and starting a band of their own or something.
But instead they were doing this kind of shit in their lace tights and crucifix necklaces. Still loving those barrettes.
Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view. The last time we see Bonnie and Rochelle they've turned up at Sarah's house, their friendship with her in tatters, and they're wearing some seriously odd clothes. Bonnie in particular has made strange choices with this shirt, why are the sleeves so long?! And actually, why the hell are the sleeves of Rochelle's coat also so long?!
I guess the lesson is, beware of magic. Not only because it will ravage both your friendship group and your love life, but also because when you're stripped of your powers you may find you suddenly have no idea how to dress yourself.
Nancy, Sarah, Bonnie and Rochelle. I love you all individually, but we have to admit—they were better together.
A big part of falling in love is the "will they, won't they?" element. The Ross and Rachel effect. The not-knowing, the building up of it in your head, the waiting. And I'm not talking about romantic love, I'm talking about falling head over heels for a pair of Zara cowboy shoes, or a vintage cheerleader jacket emblazoned with the first letter of your name.
I saw these shoes on Instagram being worn by a woman I'm completely obsessed with one morning when I'd woken up very early and couldn't get back to sleep. I was just passing the hours till I could be bothered to get up/had to pee, and there they were, and I wanted them so bad. But, being from Zara and in the sale, they were (of course) no longer available on the site. So at 9am that day I stomped across London to a branch that claimed to stock them in my size, and there they were, right by the front door. And they'd been reduced even more by the time I got there. The fact I was getting something I so badly wanted, and for cheaper than I expected, well, it made me slightly giddy. Far more giddy, I would argue, than if I'd just bought them full price easy-peasy off the site three months ago.
Meanwhile the jacket was found after trawling eBay and Etsy (all the E shops, mate) for several hours. Again, it was yards cheaper than any of the other jackets I was perusing, because it was mislabelled and the lady selling it hadn't taken very good photos of it, so once again, I had the thrill of a bargain. I'm chuffed to bits with both of these items, these new pieces of stuff to add to my collection, but perhaps 33% of that chuffage is because I had to work for them. They played hard to get.
You know when your friend does something cool and you're all, "oh wow buddy!" and then you actually start to engage with what they've done not just as a supportive pal but as an interested audience member, and you realise you're just a big fan of the thing that they've made and it has nothing to do with the fact you've known them since you were 17, it's simply a genius idea that has been excellently conceived? Well, friends, let me tell you about Radio Atlas.
OK so. There's radio in the UK, right? We can all agree on that. I think it's been proven. And the radio documentaries made in the UK are generally English language. And there are a lot of them to listen to. But hang on, there's radio and sound art made in other countries which isn't in English. And, oh shit, it's probably really, really great. Or at least, some of it is. Statistically. OK well let's listen to that too, I bet they do really cool radio in Italy. I'll just pop some on, and oh. Here's a massive stack of paper with the translation of what they're saying into English. Yeah, because that isn't difficult to follow.
THERE IS A SOLUTION - Radio Atlas.
It's one of those ideas that is so perfect, and so simple, that it's actually stunning. Look at this example below.
It's hypnotic. And yes it is the brain child of my friend Eleanor McDowall. She's won awards for her radio but to me she'll always be the girl who introduced me to Buffy and regularly makes me laugh so hard I snot-cry.
I've written about The Whitepepper before, I wore one of their double layer pink polka dot floaty dresses (which is that items official name. Not really) in Paris when we were staying in an equally pink apartment. This season they are far more about space prints worn with their mesh fabrics, and of course these Beetlejuice-esuqe trousers. I like any clothing that helps me disappear into white walls, it's sort of similar to when Kate Winslet was going everywhere in those Stella McCartney illusion dresses. Except the opposite.
Whitepepper grew out of vintage clothes, not literally like some bizarre plant made up of jeans and stinky suede, but they have been always been able to dig around and pick the best old bits to sell on their site. And I believe that if you can find good vintage (which they definitely can) then you can make good clothes of your own. They can also make good accessories - I love their matching heart ring, earrings and necklace, which are just the perfect amount of chunky, as are the soles on these boots.
I always panic before we go to hotter climates. What to pack keeps me awake at night, which seems so dumb. What a waste of time - it's only clothes, just wear less. But it's not just about the sunshine, it's that people in LA dress differently to people in London. Well, I think they do. I couldn't actually tell you how they dress differently, I just know that quite often I'll open my suitcase when I'm still jetlagged and there are palm trees outside the window, only to feel panicky that nothing I've brought will make me feel comfortable. I won't feel like I fit in. Usually I counteract that by thinking, "Fuck them!" (Err, who?! The fictional LA fashion police who only live inside my head?!). It's so bizarre because no one has ever told me I'm dressing weird in LA. I've never been kicked out of a building for being too London. And how arrogant of me to think that for one second people are at all concerned about what bloody top I'm wearing.
This time though it feels slightly different. I'm not going to lie that I didn't have a freak out on our first day when we had meetings and I had no idea if ripped jeans were appropriate (are they?!) But then I remembered I'd packed this amazing vintage blazer from one of my favourite new London via South Korea brands, Freckle London. Who can possibly have a problem with a jacket that looks a teeny bit like the one Marge Simpson found in a discount store and then wore over and over again, re-purposing it into different outfits so people wouldn't notice it's the same suit? It's my favourite Simpsons episode, please watch it. I love this jacket, because it connects me to Marge and also made me feel a bit more ready for some LA bidness.
If you're suffering from similar packing panics I strongly recommend looking at Freckle. They have incredible vintage gems, but also drool-worthy in-house designs. I love this embroidered tulip skirt, and am definitely going to be wearing their Camp Firewood T-shirt in the very near future.
Oh also, that picture of food at the bottom of the page is my lunch from Sweetfin Poke in Santa Monica. I know, it's weird when people post pictures of their meals - "hey look at this stuff that's in my body now!" It's gross. But I really, really want Poke to come to London. It's a bit like chirashi but with bigger chunks of fish (I'm not making this less gross am I) and you can get different toppings, and it's so freaking delicious. OK, that's my Poke plea.
Yesterday we made the two-hour drive from where we are staying in Palm Springs to visit Salvation Mountain. Apparently anyone can see this incredible man-made dream, or "visionary environment" simply by playing GTA V, but I don't think that's quite the same as seeing it in real life. Salvation Mountain is the work of Leonard Knight, a local artist who built this masterpiece as a tribute to God and the Sinner's Prayer. There's also plenty of flowers, trees, waterfalls, cars, car doors, caves painted and decorated in pale blue, and rainbow-coloured branches. Now I ain't religious but faith sure can inspire some people to build overwhelmingly fantastic structures, and this was no exception. Walking around the awesome (I was overflowing with awe) Salvation Mountain felt a bit like sitting in a centuries-old church in Rome which took several generations to build, or hearing how difficult and back-breaking it was for Michelangelo when he painted the Sistine Chapel.
(Although as we arrived there was a crew and dancers shooting a Korean pop band's music video, which has never happened in any other religious structure I've visited. But then none of those were quite as Instagram-worthy as Knight's incredible offering to California. Plus I don't think they let you make music videos at the Vatican. Yet.)
My dress is from Valley Of The Dolls (I LOVE their stuff) and my shoes are Swedish Hasbeens that I've had forever and ever. Probably the most I've ever spent on a pair of shoes and completely worth it. Salvation Mountain is very out of the way, it's near nothing, but I can't recommend it enough. I don't think I'll ever see anything quite like it again.
Below is my first piece for The Pool, a site I'm extremely chuffed to write for. It's about how I want to be Eddy and Patsy when I grow up.
When I first watched Ab Fab, I was a suburban pre-teen, curled up next to my mum on the sofa, still wearing my grey and red school uniform. The lives of these London fashionistas were completely foreign to me, with their magazine jobs and VIP lives, and I found them slightly terrifying – and hilarious. Eddy would regularly tantrum when Saffy, her neglected teen daughter, didn't know about Lacroix. And I mean proper prostate-on-the-kitchen-tiles, banging-her-fists-on-the-floor tantrums. Meanwhile, Patsy would sidle up to men 20 or 30 years her junior and perform her own version of the Joey Tribbiani “How you doin?” on them, fag in hand, beehive rock solid with hairspray. These women were utterly disgraceful.
But now, watching as a grown-up, I find them utterly delightful. Aspirational even. And I'm pleased to note I have more in common with Eddy and Patsy than ever before. (Also, I now get all the references to Fired Earth and Jocasta Innes, and was giddy to see a young Idris Elba dancing with Patsy in a backwards Kangol hat). In fact, Eddy and Patsy are now my template for how to age, my TV version of the Jenny Joseph poem Warning. Because, really, this is a show about women, and how wonderfully silly and funny women can be when they're not worrying about what everyone else will think. They're women let loose – and I want that.
I want their friendship, too. Eddy and Patsy are soulmates. When Saffy organises family gatherings with her gay father and his partner in tow (again, this show was streaks ahead of its time), Eddy and Patsy sneak off to the toilet together, where they roll around on the floor, giggling and necking champagne like teenagers. When Eddy has to meet Saffy's headmaster, she asks, “Can I bring my friend?” They don't care about behaving in a way that would be deemed socially acceptable; in fact, the worst thing for them is to be normal. On one occasion, Patsy begs Eddy, “Don't ever make me a cup of tea.” Through their worries about sagging skin, or their careers, or whether Eddy should still be doing her food shopping at Harvey Nicks, their friendship is the most important thing in their lives. And the older I get, the more I realise that's something I desperately want for myself and my close female friends.
But Patsy and Eddy aren't the only examples of strong women in the show. Watching the show this time around, I no longer feel sorry for Saffy. She gives as good as she gets, and her verbal sparring with Patsy puts her in good stead when she gets involved with New Labour – there's no doubt she could hold her own against the Malcolm Tuckers. I also found myself becoming unexpectedly emotional when Eddy rounds on an older man who has been wooing Saffy without revealing his marital status. She punches him in the face, to a cheer from Patsy and a grateful hug from her daughter. A lot of women have less than perfect relationships with their mothers; Eddy and Saffy's is just a different flavour of dysfunction.
Another great – and telling – moment is when Saffy writes and directs a very serious, po-faced play about her terrible home life. Eddy and Patsy reluctantly slope in to watch it, only to be delighted by their actor counterparts, and the way the audience mistakes the drama for comedy, clambering on to the stage so they can take a bow. They even hang out with fake Eddy and Patsy after the show, with Patsy only doing the tiniest of double-takes upon realising she was played by a man. And, of course, Gran or Mrs M has her moments – when Eddy announces that inside her there is a thin person screaming to get out, her mother fires back, “Just the one, dear?”
So, as the publicity for the upcoming Ab Fab film kicks into gear, I'm resolving to call people “sweetie” more, to dress as flamboyantly as I dare and to plan several disgraceful outings with my soulmates.
I am not made for deserts. Or heat. I get a rash on my hands if I'm exposed to sunlight for more than a few hours. I do not tan, I just burn, burn, burn. I wear SPF100 because there is absolutely no point me even trying to get colour. And when I do it's freckles - I like freckles, but they just mean skin damage. Fuck that. I'm half Irish, half Welsh, my ancestors worked down mines for heaven's sake. We are not a tropical people, we are a people who like rain, wind, green grass and fires. I am very good at making fires (in fireplaces, not outside. We've been through this - I ain't outdoorsy). A long time ago a woman who looked a bit like me probably spent ages walking around on moors and stomping in mud, then fell asleep in a puddle. Maybe.
All that being said - LOOK OUT AN UNEXPECTED TWIST COMING - I loved this place in Palm Springs. The Indian Canyons, where you can find an oasis and a waterfall. We also found a nice man from Manchester and when I said, "oof, we don't get this at home" he rebuffed, "no but we have the Lake District". A British person's audible pride of their home country, a rare and surprising thing.
It's not really like anywhere else I've ever been, you don't get palm trees like that in Europe, the scale of everything is overwhelming, huge rocks, low valleys. Like any good half Welsh, half Irish woman I tried to dress for the occasion. Embroidered jeans because, you know, outdoors. (A lot of people have asked me about those jeans - they're from Glamorous but I think they keep selling out, boo). A suede fringed cape for um, America? And being ridiculous? And white trainers. Yeah. The first thing I did when I got home was put those trainers in the wash so they buffed up to pristine snow again. You can take the girl outside, but you can't stop her freaking out about dirt on her kicks.
Do you remember the episode of 'Curb Your Enthusiasm' when Suzy offers Larry a tour of her new home and he turns her down? Well I would never turn down a house tour, especially not when it's modernist real estate in Palm Springs. We were lucky to be visiting during the week when members of the public are allowed to shuffle through two show houses designed by Christopher Kennedy, renowned local interior designer. Kennedy works with the home owners and other designers to show off their talents.
A major draw is the fact the houses back onto the fairway of the Indian Canyons Golf Resort, a favorite of Hollywood stars like Frank Sinatra, Walt Disney and Bob Hope. They were built in the late '60s and so are ideal for any fans of architecture of that period. AKA everyone. I took many, many photos, although I don't think much of this decoration would work for my house. I worry that I couldn't get away with having a bell for the pool boy on pink and green tropical wallpaper in my London bathroom. And my family and friends would probably be concerned if I put a huge photo of a horse on our living room wall and painted the bedroom hot pink and neon orange. However, it was very interesting to see the buildings themselves, so open and clean in design, and the colourful interiors were extremely Palm Springs, which is a good thing.
I also enjoyed listening to couples argue over whether or not they could have a huge white head with black eyes in their master bedroom. It was a no.
